The Grip of Winter
by harrylee94
Summary: Jon Snow had never had a place in the world, never known who he was, until he became a sworn brother of the Night's Watch, but he had never had to question what he was. After a brief but life altering encounter with a frozen nightmare made manifest, his whole world is brought to its knees as he is changed forever. Will he have the courage to find himself all over again?


**AN - This story idea (as corny as it sounds) came from a dream I had a few months ago and I've been trying to avoid typing it out as I knew it would suck me in, but it would seem that the pull was just too strong. I've been playing with it for some time and during the past few weeks I finally got up the courage to write it down. Hopefully that will explain where all the crazy stuff comes from, for which I will have to apologise to George R R Martin, seeing as I used 'artistic licence' to an abusive level, and I made several assumptions which are more than likely wrong. ****I will be mixing the TV show with the books, just to warn you.**

**And before we begin, I would like to say a special thanks to OursIsTheFury94 (who's Robb story is really something worth checking out) and Rob for helping me through this, giving useful advice and nudging me in the right direction. Enjoy the story!**

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The wind was cold. No, that word didn't do it any justice. The wind was glacial. It didn't just whip hair around your face and into your eyes, if it had any moisture in it, it froze, or was at least coated with a thin layer of frost. It tore at the furs around your shoulders and sliced through the supposedly warm clothes on your back. And if that wasn't enough, there was the snow. Though there wasn't a cloud in sight, the air was full of it, the winds pulling it up from the ground where it had settled and blowing it into those gaps in your garments you'd thought were covered or had forgotten about. The rest lay about you, falling into your boots and melting against your skin if you didn't tie the tops to your legs, or seeped in through the fabric. You want to take them off, to empty the cold water out and stop your toes from the possibility of frostbite, but if you did that, then it would become a certainty. So, you just have to accept it. Accept that you're going to have to bear the freezing water lapping your ankles, accept the chill that seeps into your skin, and accept that life is going to be worse than the seven hells for the next few months, because it was your choice to come here, and there's no going back.

This is what Jon Snow, steward of Jeor Mormont, the nine-hundred and ninety seventh Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, tells himself every time he even considers turning his back and fleeing to Castle Black. He had chosen to accept his post, and he had chosen to remain faithful to his vows. He was the watcher at the wall, and he would remain so until his last breath, along with every other soul who ever had or ever would take the black. It was now though, when the sun was beginning to set and the fires were low, when most were supping, that he was able to forget the cold, even for the briefest of moments, and be grateful for the warm broth that was held in his hands. Though there was little, it gave him hope that he would feel the warmth of a true fire again.

Samwell Tarly seemed to fairing a little better than most, though his complaints about the water in his boots never ceased to bring a smile to his face, and a scowl to many others'. After the first few times the men had retorted against his 'whining', Sam had ceased his moans, and now he sat next to Jon, examining the dragonglass spearhead he had gifted him with earlier after finding them under the snow.

The dragonglass, or obsidian as Sam had called it once, was an unusual thing. It looked almost like coal, but it was smooth and had a slight bluish tint to it. Were it not for its colour and the glass-like transparency which increased towards the tapered edges, it could have been mistaken for flint or varnished stone. This 'frozen fire' seemed to be sharper that the steel that was held at their waists, but they were weak and easily breakable, as Dolorous Edd discovered when he dropped one of the arrow heads he had been gifted on the rocky ground around the edges of the encampment, shattering it into a thousand shards.

As Sam examined the blade in the twilight, his eyes seemed to light up as its surface refracted the light. It was strange how something so deadly could be so beautiful.

Blinking himself out of his day dream, Jon finished off his broth, scooping the last of it from his bowl with his spoon before wiping it down with some snow, his gloved fingers already too numb to feel the damp cold sticking to the leather, and tucking it away in his pack. Shoving his hands under his arm pits, some of the warmest parts of his body, he turned his attention to the two men who were sitting a few yard away, their heads turned towards each other in conversation. Though it was hard to hear much over the wind, which was thankfully beginning to die down a bit, he could still catch some phrases.

"… this cold. I swear it's the… usually this strong," one of them said while the other nodded.

"Don't… could get any colder… hundreds of times, and he… Not natural, I'm telling…" the second replied before murmuring something and walking off, probably to collect some more fuel for the fires or join in with the shovelling, anything to get the blood flowing and keep him warm – warmer than the heat from the fires could make him at least.

Sighing, Jon patted Sam on the shoulder and gave him a quick smile before rising , intending to find Grenn and Edd who were probably still shovelling on the east side of the Fist.

Trudging across the camp, though easier than when they had first arrived, was difficult and it would have been easy to lose your way as it was barely possible to see more than eight feet away from you at any one time, though it had been much worse before. It took a while, but using the sun as a compass, Jon was able to find his friends again, both resting their arms on the handles of their shovels. As he came into view, he noticed Grenn lift his head.

"Look who's back!" Grenn exclaimed, a beaming smile on his face. "What's the matter, the fire too hot for you?"

Jon grinned at the joke and picked up the shovel he'd left behind, already covered with a thin layer of snow. "Nah, I missed your pretty mug too much."

"Fuck off," the young man said as he gave him a playful shove. Edd just rolled his eyes before resuming his duties, shaking his head and mumbling something under his breath.

It didn't take long to get back into the motion of things; dig the shovel in, push it in with your foot, shovel it away, dig, push, shovel, over and over. It was mind numbing work, but it was hard to think of much in the cold, so they didn't really mind. By the time Sam had joined them, they'd cleared another two feet and the wind had dropped to something similar to what it was like on top of the Wall.

"Looks like it's clearing up," Sam said, squinting into the wind, "Do you think it's going to stop soon?"

Edd snorted. "The day the wind stops is the day the sun melts the Wall."

Sam frowned at the comment, but, as always, it didn't sway him. "I didn't think it could ever be so cold. Do you think we'll be able to empty our boots at all? It's terribly uncomfortable."

"Gods, kill me now!" Grenn moaned. "When are you ever going to stop complaining?"

"Well at least he's not talking about that girl anymore," Edd remarked, to which Grenn hummed in agreement.

Jon laughed quietly but turned to face his friend. "I suspect we won't be taking our boots off until we get rid of this snow. But I think having boots filled with water are better than wet boots and dry feet."

"I wouldn't be so sure," Edd chipped in. "A man I knew once didn't empty his boots for a few weeks, turns out his feet had started to rot. His toes had gone all black and dead like and some of his skin was turning green and spouted this puss that was all up the inside of his leg. It was disgusting."

Jon blanched at the tale, and the colour had drained out of Sam's face. "Wh-what happened to him?" Sam asked, though it was clear that he was afraid of the answer.

"He died," Edd said as he continued his work, as though it didn't really matter. "Had to cut his leg off to stop it from spreading too far, but he bled out in the end. Nothing we could have done." He stopped for a moment to wipe his brow before the wind froze his sweat. "It was his own damn fault really."

Jon made a mental note to empty his shoes out later. A glance at Sam and Grenn showed that they seemed to have come to the same conclusion. At least now he knew why most of the older men risked the frostbite each night.

Shaking himself out of his stupor, he returned to his work, letting the monotonous sounds of his shovelling drown out the thoughts plaguing his mind. It was a few minutes later when the familiar muffled crunch of footsteps approaching distracted him that he realised that there was barely any light left in the sky.

Turning around, he was shocked to find the Lord Commander finishing his approach.

"Lord Commander," he said, alerting the others of their leader's presence.

Nodding at each of them, the Old Bear turned back to Jon, a stern look on his face, though it was rare to see anything other than his usual frown. "I want you to take second watch tonight, Jon, East side," he said. "You haven't been on duty for a while, and everyone has to do their share."

Jon nodded. "Yes, Lord Commander."

"Good. Now, I suggest you lads get some rest. You've been working hard today." And with that he left, leaving the four of them to sigh in relief and carry their shovels back to the camp.

It took less than a minute to set up their beds; thin mats which separated them from the cold floor, which always ended up soaked by morning. Luckily, the water became frost and ice over the course of the day, so it was easy enough to wipe off by the time they were to be used again. Luckily for Jon though, he was gifted an extra layer of warmth every so often when his direwolf, Ghost, saw fit to join him, but this night was not to be one of those nights as he had disappeared shortly after the discovery of the dragonglass to go hunting.

Bone weary and too exhausted to care about the stones digging into his back, Jon succumbed to the black oblivion of unconsciousness, slipping into the familiar sea of dreams of home, his family, and the warmer summer snows of Winterfell. Hours later, when he was roused from his slumber, it took him a moment to understand why he was waking up on the Fist of the First Men rather than in the Great Keep of the North's capital.

Groaning a little, he heaved himself to his feet, stifling a yawn as the last remnants of sleep tried to cling to his thoughts. Shaking his head to rid himself of those last shreds of his dreams, he landed firmly in reality.

The winds from earlier had almost ceased now, and only what felt like a slight breeze brushed through his hair as he buckled his sword to his side, though the temperature only seemed to have dropped. Jon replaced the man who had woken him by the fire, which was now little more than glowing embers. Sighing, he poked it with his boot to get it to breathe a little more and dropped another log in, making it spark up a little. Though it was hard work to bring the wood up from the forest below, the heat was vital to their survival and there were a number of dead trees to use. It was either work to get the fuel or burn excrement, the smell of which was one of the worst things to have ever crawled its way up his nose, though it did give a substantial flame.

Looking up into the night sky, he wondered at the stars. They were the same ones he had grown up with and studied as a boy. He pondered whether any of his siblings would be looking up at them with him, letting the fanciful thought make him smile. Quickly finding the North Star, Jon made his way towards the eastern side of the Fist, rubbing his gloved hands together for a little extra warmth.

Once he'd made it to his post, marked out by the small fire and the bare rock next to it and the stones that made up the ringwall, he sat himself down and began his watch.

As always, when it came to watch duty, the only things that would keep him awake would be the cold air blowing in his face and the occasional visit from one of the others on watch, going around making sure none of them had fallen asleep. However, this time there was the addition of the fog that had begun to roll in a little before he's taken his seat. He didn't know what it was, but there was something about it that put him on edge, and the way it thickened and rose made it look anything but natural.

"Jon?"

Blinking, the Bastard in the North found Ser Jarman Buckwell frowning down at him. The man was a senior ranger, a practical and honest man and was a figure of respect amongst the new recruits. He had more scouts and patrols than most, barring Qhorin Halfhand and maybe Thoren Smallwood, and his advice, though not often handed out, was always worth paying attention to.

"You seem to be deep in thought. Is something bothering you?"

Returning his gaze to the landscape before them, Jon nodded. "I've never seen fog act in such a way," he stated simply, watching as the vapour came to touch the bottom of the fist.

The ranger's eyes followed the wave-like flowing of the miasma, his brow becoming increasingly wrinkled as his frown deepened. "Nor I." He turned back to the steward. "Keep your eyes open. I wouldn't put it past the Wildlings to use this to their advantage."

Before Jon could reply, Jarman was gone, moving along on his route, undoubtedly to pass on the word had they not already realised the possible danger. Returning to his duty, he tried to watch for any shapes that formed in the rising white sea, but the trees were already disappearing beneath its surface and there was little doubt in his mind that there would be no warning if they were attacked.

As the cloud continued to rise, wrapping its way around the Fist, he couldn't help but think of what he had seen outside of Craster's Keep in the Haunted Forest; the Other. Old Nan's stories had not done those creatures any justice. She had never said exactly what they were, but she did say that they looked like men, so evil and vicious that they ate the children they caught alive, their eyes so deep they could stare into your soul and freeze you from just a look.

From the way she had made them sound, he had always imagined them to be these big, dark men with shadowed faces and dark, hollow eyes, as though they had no eyes at all, blood dripping down their chins from their feasting on the flesh and blood of innocents, covered in rags and thick, padded boots. They had always seemed frozen and clumsy in his mind, their skin dead and their hair greasy and unkempt, and yet, what he saw was a stark contrast to anything he could have imagined.

The Other he had seen outside of Craster's Keep, the one that had taken that baby the wildling man had offered as what he had come to call a sacrifice, was definitely humanoid and dark, but that was about all that was similar to his imaginings. Though there was little to no light to see by, it was impossible to call that creature 'cumbersome'. It was thin, lithe and graceful, its movements smooth, careful even, its steps silent as it moved swiftly through the trees. It was impossible to see what it looked like, but its eyes…

A sudden blast of cold air pulled him from his thoughts, forcing him to pull his cloak closer. Looking down at his fire, Jon realised it had gone out, and though it wasn't cold, it was cooling fast. Cursing under his breath for his carelessness, he rose from his perch and crouched beside the pile of smouldering ashes and unburnt logs. He thought of using his flint to relight what had been his heat source, but realised that he had no kindling and would sooner get the job done by dragging a piece of another fire into his own. Though he was loath to leave his post, he knew that if he did not relight his fire, it was likely that he would be unable to act were something to occur, and the strange, heavy feeling in his gut was telling him that the night would hold more than just the cold.

Scanning the landscape one last time, however useless it was seeing as the fog had now risen a further twenty feet, he all but ran back to the main camp, picking up a discarded shovel along the way.

It took less than a minute to shovel some burning kindling from the nearest fire, and less again to add it to his own, the embers soon flaring up again and the heat washing over him, bringing a small sense of relief. Pulling off his gloves, Jon held them closer to the fire, massaging his right hand with his left. Even months after the wight had attacked the Lord Commander, his hand still gave him problems, but the feel of the fire's heat on his bare flesh seemed to relax the almost constantly tense muscles.

It was only when he looked up that he realised that the fog was now spilling over the ringwall, the vapour gathering around at his waist and steadily rising. Slipping his gloves into his belt, he continued to massage his hand, squinting out into the mist. It wasn't long before the fog was above his head and the world was cast in a grey light, the visibility dropping to an abysmal low, making even the rocks not ten paces away look like shadows in the haze.

Blowing some frozen breath into his hands, he stomped his feet on the ground, the water inside sloshing against his feet, reminding him to empty them, and he was about to pull his gloves back on when some movement caught his eye.

At first he thought it was a wildling, but the shadow was too graceful and silent. His second thought was that Ghost had finally decided to return when he realised that the shape was close to the ground, but the direwolf would have made a faster ascent than this, as he always seemed eager to return to his side. That, and its eyes were most definitely not that of any ordinary being.

Cold eyes, as deep as the Narrow Sea and as bright and blue as the ice, stared up at him from a face so white that it made the snow look like mud.

To say it was a gruesome sight to behold would have been a lie. Its features were fair, almost beautiful – elegant even – but the way it looked at him drove terror into his heart and sucked the air from his lungs. It froze every muscle in his body and made thoughts fly from his mind, leaving only his instincts to rule his actions.

His eyes remaining fixed on the advancing figure before him, Jon closed his fingers around the grip of his sword, ignoring the sting of the cold as it sent a shock up his arm – he had no time to pull his gloves back on now – and began a slow retreat. Second after painful second the Other followed him as he stepped backwards and he wondered why no one had come to his aid, only to realise that he had failed to blow the horn which was sat uselessly in the snow back by the rocks.

As the creature reached the ringwall, Jon drew his sword, the blade making barely any noise as it slid from its scabbard. The Other seemed slightly amused at this, pausing to examine him as he held the ancestral blade of the Mormonts between them, but its interest in him soon wavered when its eyes fell upon the steel itself. Anger and rage filled its mien and it began to make an almost hissing noise at him, drawing its own crystal blade.

Eyes wide, Jon raised his sword just as the Other struck, a sharp screeching sound echoing from the contact, but the force of the blow caused him to gasp as it sent a burst of pain shooting up his arm, the tender skin of his hand doing nothing to protect the damaged nerve endings. When the monster struck again he felt his grip begin to loosen, but the sound of men beginning to rouse from their sleep behind him made his spirits rise and he forced his hand to tighten its hold.

Again and again the swords met, each time bringing fury to the attacker, each time weakening Jon's strength. There were shouts now, but still no help came, only the sound of the three horn blasts. As the first sounded, Jon hesitated, raising Longclaw a little too slowly. Before he knew it, the sword was lying in the snow, out of sight and out of reach, and he was on his knees, his hand and arm cradles by his breast, numb from the fight, but he couldn't find it within himself to care. He was staring death in the face. He was alone, he was cold, and he was scared. This was not the death he had hope for himself, but it was the one he was going to receive.

As the Other drew back its sword for the final blow, he closed his eyes, not wanting to see his own end.

But it never came.

Instead of the whistle of a blade as it cut through the air, a voice, harsh and unintelligible, speaking a language that sounded as ancient as the world, entered his ears, followed by another, a little deeper but of the same tongue, mixing with the shouts and cries of the men behind him. Cracking his eyes open, Jon found that the Other had sheathed his sword and was now striding past him towards the camp. However, his gaze did not move, for before him stood a second.

This one was a little taller than the first, though just as lean, and wielded no weapon save a dagger at its belt. It had a long face and its hair was more grey than white unlike the first ones which was more of a silver colouring. But of all of this, it was its eyes that were most different.

Crimson replaced ice blue, forcing an unfortunate comparison with the faces carved into the Heart Trees of the Old Gods, though the Other's face was far from godly, though an immeasurable number of years were held in its features, and he felt far from safe in its presence.

Glancing down at his waist, he reached for his dagger, cursing his luck when he found that the blade was stuck, his attempt costing him time he did not have. When he looked back up again, it felt as though his heart stopped.

The Other had crouched down before him, face no more than a few inches away from his own. He didn't dare move as it came closer still, inhaling deeply through its nose.

Before he could even think of doing anything, its fingers wrapped themselves around his neck, squeezing his throat shut as it pulled him up into the air, keeping him close to its face, its cold seeping into his skin. Jon tried to claw at the arm that held him, kick at the creature's body, but it was as effective as kicking stone. As he continued his struggle, he became increasingly aware that he was quickly running out of air, and the ice from the Other's touch was spreading, his clothes useless to protect him.

Slowly, everything began to fade, his vision first becoming hazy and then darkening to only the red of the Other's eyes, the sounds of the battle behind him vanishing into silence until all he could hear was the beat of his own waning heart, each beat further from the last. It felt like his head was going to explode, that his rib cage was going to crush his lungs and that every muscle was trying to eat itself. He was being crushed from the inside out, and there was no escape.

And then he felt it. That wonderful release, that passage to freedom. Air! He breathed it in greedily, unable to notice how cold and used it was as he gasped the Other's breath down his throat. It took him a moment to realise he was standing, but that barely seemed to matter anymore.

As Jon continued to breathe, he became aware of something; something wrong. As he continued to inhale the vapour that the Other was forcing into him, he felt a cold ache begin to rise in the base of his chest, slowly spreading as the ice had on his skin. He could feel it working its way through him until…

He howled in pain when he felt it freezing his blood as it travelled through him, tearing at the walls of his veins, destroying every fibre of every part of him. When it reached his head, he almost passed out, but something prevented it, keeping him conscious, making him feel every hurt and every break.

He was vaguely aware of familiar voices crying out his name, of an inhuman cry filling the air, but his body wouldn't allow him to focus on anything. Instead, he collapsed to his hands and knees, his support gone, fingers grasping at the snow, trying to ground himself in reality. He tried to fight the disease that was tearing through him, but it was burning him whole, spreading through every inch of his being.

Once again he heard his name, the voices closer this time and a familiar weight in his shoulder, but still all he could do was moan and gasp and wail. He felt so angry! How could he fight if the enemy was himself?

Raking his fingers through the snow, he felt them wrap around something. It felt smooth and delicate, but he was unable to see what it was, having squeezed them shut when it felt like they were being stabbed by a thousand needles. When another burst of pain coursed through him, attacking his spine, he felt it shatter in his grip.

And then, it stopped. It wasn't immediate and it wasn't quick, but it brought relief every step of the way, and , surprisingly, warmth.

As the pain slowly ebbed away, he realised he felt… different. He didn't know how or why, but he knew that whatever had just happened to him, it had changed him. Weakly pushing the shadows of unconsciousness away, he gazed at his hands in fascination. They were buried up to the wrist in snow, and yet he couldn't feel how cold it was. In fact, it felt like his hands were covered in salt. And he felt abnormally warm. It was as though he'd just gone riding or fought a round against Robb in the practice yard.

Suddenly, a wave of exhaustion hit him and he collapsed to the ground, hugging his arms and knees to his chest to stop himself from shaking.

"Jon!" came a voice from above him, and he forced his eyes open slightly to see the worried face of Samwell Tarley. "Jon, you're as pale as death!"

Letting the corner of his mouth curl up into the ghost of a smile, Jon sighed. "I'm alright, Sam. I'm… I'm just tired."

And with that, he let himself slip once more into the deep sea of sleep.

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**AN - Well, there you have it. My first chapter of my first ever ASOIAF/GOT fic! I hope you enjoyed it and I thank you for reading! #bows#**


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